by Rose Tremain
And Will replies: ‘Pray do not offend me with Poet’s Piffle, Sir Robert. It is not worthy of you.’
‘Worthy of me?’
This, I ponder: my Worth in the vain world.
I let Clarendon die. I let Violet die. The hospitality I showed to Ambrose was miserly and unworthy. I may even have lost Louise. And the King, who has always and ever lodged in my heart as God lodges in the heart of true Believers, has, by taking Margaret away to a destiny that may prove to be her ruin, almost vanished from it, leaving behind only the merest hint of his presence there: a whiff of perfume, a cascade of laughter. Yet I feel this Absence not as a relief, but only as a terrible wound in my breast.
My dreams, however – though this be strange – are of a sweet, consoling nature. Often, in them, I am a five-year-old boy again, with my Mother in the Woods of Vauxhall, looking for badgers. She places a rug on the earth and sits down there in the first drift of evening, and I sit beside her, snug within the circle of her arm, feeling against my leg the warmth of her body, and she says: ‘If you are very quiet, a Badger will come from its sett and you will see its black-and-white face.’
And then, after a short while one of the animals appears, and it turns in circles and pirouettes on its hind legs, as though dancing for us, and I am held by the spell of this, and I feel my Mother’s gladness as she holds me close to her.
Yet, in reality, though we went again and again to Vauxhall Woods, no Badger ever came to visit us. I suppose I was never quiet enough, but too restless and prating. So then I understand that my dreams are showing me what might have been, had my own conduct been different. And I begin to wonder: can a dream ever instruct us how to be in the time to come?
I know not what that time holds for me. At present it appears to contain Nothing at all. I lie above a Precipice. The depths below me are black and silent. I listen for the sound of the wind, or for the calling of a human voice, but nothing is heard.
I send one of my Footmen, by the name of Sharpe, to Dunn in Norwich, with a note from me ordering more Opium. Though I have been trying to resist thinking about this excellent Consolation, my mind cannot quite turn away from it, so tempting is the absence of suffering that it procures.
But, alas, Sharpe does not return. The price of Opium is high and I sent him with a substantial Purse. And Will comes to me and says: ‘Sir Robert, that damnèd Sharpe, it appears, is a Naked Villain and a Thief. For off he goes with all his clothes in a sack, and his every possession bar his Livery of the Household, knowing he would not come back to Bidnold, but live off the Opium Purse for a goodly while. What do you think to that?’
‘What do I think?’ say I. ‘I think it lamentable. But what am I to do?’
‘You should pursue him and catch him and let him be hanged for Knavery and Theft!’
I stare at Will. Though I am shocked that any Servant should steal from me and like me so little that he betray my Trust in him, I hear myself say: ‘Alas, our England does not prosper, Will.’
‘What is that to do with Sharpe, Sir?’
‘Well, only this, that more and more do people drift from their trade or occupation, or are thrown from these, to fall into a general Criminality of Mind – even Footmen, who are schooled in humility and obedience to command from on high. And I do not know what is to be done.’
‘His Majesty must pass laws …’
‘His Majesty has convened no Parliament through which to pass them.’
‘So all is coming to ruin, is it, Sir Robert?’
‘Ruin compared to what was hoped for. At the Restoration there was a time of Opportunity, which you and I saw with our own eyes, but it is squandered and gone.’
‘So what is to become of us?’
‘I cannot tell, Will. Now, I am going to give you a purse. Tomorrow you must take the coach to Dunn’s of Norwich and get me the Elixir that I need.’
‘I beg your pardon, Sir?’
‘You heard me.’
‘I heard the word Elixir and that is all.’
‘And you shall ride to Norwich to procure it.’
‘I am not permitted to procure any “Elixir”.’
‘On the contrary, I am giving you permission.’
‘I mean that I cannot do it. I mean that I will not do it. And there’s an end of the subject.’
Will, who has been standing near the bed, where I lie in a state of unwashed catastrophe, turns from me and walks, surprisingly fast, to the door, which he opens and closes with a bang in the manner of a child undergoing a tantrum.
This amuses me fleetingly. Will’s stubbornness has often occasioned me some mirth. And now that he is so old, I see it as proof of his obstinate desire to Continue, which consoles me, for were Will to die, why then I see that my Solitude would be complete. As long as he argues with me, he means, perhaps, to outlive me.
But then I begin to see that unless I haul myself into a coach I will not come by my Opium by any Means, for now I can trust no other Servant but Will. And no sooner have I realised this than a terrible Craving for it overcomes me and all that occupies my mind is how I can send for it.
I fidget and turn in my rumpled bed. My limbs ache. My mouth is dry. I feel like the most wretched specimen of the Human Race. I hear myself call out to Louise de Flamanville to save me.
Days and nights pass.
My one refuge, in the absence of Opium, is in my dreams, where sometimes I am with Rosie Pierpoint, long ago when she was young, and the two of us lying together in delirium on her piles of Laundry, and I wake in an Ecstasy, imagining myself inside her. And the sweetness of her lingers long in my mind and body, and soothes them to something like peace.
The only letter that comes is from Margaret.
‘The King,’ she writes, ‘spends much time with those of us who attend the Duchess of Portsmouth, and this is most flattering and agreeable. He tells me that he prefers to be here in our apartments than with his Queen or with his Privy Council or anywhere in Whitehall or in the Kingdom, save Bidnold.’
She then goes on to relate how she has become the favourite ‘maid’ of the Duchess, who spoils her with new dresses and pieces of Jewellery ‘and if the King come not to her at night, she sometimes wakes me and takes me into her bed and puts her arms round me and we fall asleep together, like children.’
Though this image troubles me, I force myself to see in it only the Duchess’s affection and I reason, furthermore, that the King might draw back from betraying his Mistress with her favourite Maid-in-Waiting.
But then follows a new thought. I imagine how, waking in the night full of lust, the King might go to the Duchess and, finding Margaret there in her bed, be suddenly enamoured of the idea that the three of them might make Revels all together. And I feel very hot and sweating when I think that my daughter might be so corrupted, and immediately take up my pen and write: ‘Stay on your Guard against any Sophisticated Practices of the Bedroom, for that they may degrade and punish you with Shame, in the end. Keep yourself pure and unsullied, Margaret, and only seduce the world by showing your Talents at Music and Dancing and your Comprehension of Latin.’
When I read what I have written, however, I do see that the tone of it is one of vile Priggishness and Pomposity, and I tear it in pieces. Instead, I force myself to write:
How happy I am, dear Margaret, to hear you are so favoured by your Employer. She is right, of course, to single out one of so sweet a nature, and all that you are getting for yourself is got by that – by your own Goodness and Kindness. And how much I look forward to seeing your new dresses and Jewels, surpassing any that I could afford! I shall come to London before September. Meanwhile, I send you my deepest affection,
From your loving Papa,
R. Merivel
I arrange for despatch of my letter, and soon afterwards Will informs me that Sir James and Lady Prideaux have called upon me and attend me in the Library.
‘Ah,’ say I, ‘how kind of them. No doubt they heard that I was ill.’
&n
bsp; Will draws back the curtains in my bedroom, that I have kept half closed to keep out the August sun, and opens the window. ‘You are not ill, Sir,’ says he, ‘you are horridly malingering. And you stink like a dead rat.’
‘Now, now, Will,’ I say. ‘Have a care how you speak to me.’
‘I only speak true. I will get hot water brought up to you, that you may wash yourself and put on some clothes before you come downstairs. Meanwhile I shall serve a Cordial to Sir James and his wife.’
Had my Visitors been any other than the Prideaux, perhaps I would not have stirred from my Inertia. But to these I feel bonds of affection (for Margaret’s sake as well as for my own), so I scrub my body, put on the clean garb Will has laid out for me, clamp my wig to my head and, on legs very weak and trembling, make my way downstairs.
When I see the Prideaux I am cheered. What consoles me in them is their sanity or normality. Their lives go on, as lives should but seldom do, arranged around a quiet prosperity and domestic comfort. They are never heard to complain about anything, for, in truth, they have very little to complain about. Yet they do not seem smug.
They commiserate with me about the Bear. (This story is out around the County, and no one except James and Arabella Prideaux appears to sympathise with my loss, but all take the side of the Farmers who killed and ate the creature.)
‘What did you intend for your Bear?’ asks Arabella.
‘Oh,’ say I, ‘I intended that he should have an untroubled life. Once I talked about starting a Menagerie here at Bidnold, but I did not, in the end, want a Menagerie, I merely wanted Clarendon to be happy.’
‘Happy?’ enquires Sir James.
‘Yes. Many do not consider animals capable of what we would call “happiness”, but I believe they are wrong. We have only to observe a pet Spaniel made aware that he is to be taken for a walk …’
‘Dogs are perhaps a particular case, Merivel, having chosen Man to be their protector. But your Bear was named Clarendon, you say?’
‘Yes. The King named him, after the late Earl.’
‘Thus, perhaps, unfortunately consigning him to an unhappy end?’
‘Indeed. Though His Majesty did not intend this. Watching Clarendon absorbed him. He observed that something in the demeanour of Bears reminds us of ourselves. They have the faces of Outcasts.’
‘Outcasts? The King is not an Outcast.’
‘For eleven years he was. He never forgets it – not for one day. The place he visits most frequently in his dreams is Boscobel.’
The Prideaux nod gravely. After a while Arabella asks: ‘Have you any Souvenir of the poor Bear?’
‘The Pelt was brought to me. To look at this empty skin, with the head still attached, was a fearful thing. But I have had the Pelt taken to be cured, so that I may use it as a rug.’
‘Ah,’ says Arabella. ‘I saw such a thing once, made from a Tiger skin. But a little Stench adhered to it, unfortunately. I could not bear to be near it.’
I change the subject swiftly. We talk about all our girls and they give me news of Mary’s new beau, who is the eldest son of Sir Reginald Brocks-Parton and worth ten thousand livres per year. And we exclaim over this sum, and find ourselves embarrassingly short of breath, as visions of True Riches make us pant.
Then James Prideaux says: ‘We fear you are much alone, Merivel. Why do you not come and stay at Shottesbrooke with us until the end of summer? We can make up some parties of Whist and I shall invite musicians to entertain us, and there is a hanging on Mouse Hill next week …’
‘We would be so glad if you would come,’ says Arabella. ‘This was all the purpose of our visit. And it is such a while since we have had a hanging in Norwich. We could take a picnic and enjoy the Spectacle together.’
I look at my friends, so nicely seated in their chairs, holding their glasses of Cordial so correctly, and find that, for the first time since I have known them, I do not, after all, absolutely like them. Though I am disconcerted by this and hope that it may be a temporary feeling, it infects me with a sudden stubborn Optimism on my own account and courage enough to reply: ‘That is the kindest offer. But I have made my plans. Before the month’s end I am to set sail for France and Switzerland.’
Thus, it came to me.
Why wait for a letter that might never arrive? Why not profit from the last of summer to make a long and absorbing journey across France into a land I have never seen? Immediately I began imagining all the wonders I might encounter: castles upon crags, forests of deep darkness, shining lakes, glaciers, mountains rising to the waning moon, fields of Gentian flowers, a Carillon of bells at sunset, and wayside inns serving Rhenish wine and wild boar.
And if, when I arrived at the Château de Saint Maurice, Louise’s father’s abode, I were refused all entry to it and to Louise’s life, why then at least I would have travelled somewhere. I would have breathed the pure air of the hills, stood higher in the world than I have ever stood, to see what view was there. I would have Tales to tell.
After James and Arabella Prideaux had departed, I called Will to me and told him: ‘You were right, Will. I have been malingering. But you shall suffer no more of it. I shall make plans to depart for Switzerland forthwith.’
‘Switzerland?’ said Will. ‘I would not go there, Sir Robert. I heard tell it be even colder than Scotland. How shall you keep your blood warm?’
I was about to reply that I would drink a great deal of the excellent liquor they call Schnapps, known for its body-heating properties, but instead I said: ‘It is still summer, by the calendar. Summer will gently merge into Autumn as I go, but then I shall see golden Beeches and stately firs and snow on the mountain tops. And on my arrival I shall be the guest of the Baron de Saint Maurice, in whose house great fires burn …’
‘Forgive me, Sir, but has he veritably invited you?’ said Will.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘The invitation is of long standing. Merely, I have not been at liberty to take it up.’
‘And how long do you plan to be absent from Bidnold?’
‘I do not know. A few months, perhaps. All shall depend on how long I am welcome in the Baron’s château.’
‘And us, Sir? Cattlebury and Myself and the other servants. What are we to do in your absence?’
‘What you always do. Keep the house. A portion of the King’s loyer will be left in your personal care to cover all expenses. I ask only that you conceal the money in some place where none but you can come to it – for after Sharpe’s absconding with my purse, we are able to trust nobody. Make sure that you have everything always in readiness for my Return.’
Will stared at me. Then I saw that his face had creased itself into an expression of troubling sadness and he began shaking his old head, as if in exasperation at my recent changes of Tune and Whim.
‘What is it, Will?’ I asked.
‘Nothing, Sir,’ he said. ‘Except I know that I may feel somewhat lonely and abandoned …’
‘You are not “abandoned”, Will. It is only for a short space of time. And please bear in mind also that, although I shall not be here, His Majesty has the right, by the generous stipend that he pays me, to take up Residence at Bidnold at any time. Thus the Candelabra in the Dining Room and all the Silver and Pewter Ware must be in a perpetual state of shining readiness.’
‘I will bear it in mind …’
‘And do not believe that I shall not be thinking about you. Every morning, when I wake in some Medieval tower and look north-westwards towards England, I shall imagine you rising in your room at Bidnold and drinking your bowl of Chocolate, then giving your Orders for the day as to what is to be scrubbed or rearranged or polished or brought in or taken out.’
‘Will you really, Sir?’
‘Yes. It is most certain.’
Will nodded. His features unclamped themselves a little from their creased state, but something of sorrow remained stubbornly in them as he turned and left the room. For his sake, I knew I might yet be dissuaded from my audacious
plan to travel to Switzerland, so I went immediately to my escritoire and took up my pen.
My dear Louise, I wrote,
I have made up my mind: I am setting forth to find you.
23
I EMBARKED ON my journey.
Always in my mind was a many-turreted castle. To these turrets led stairways of stone, winding in upon themselves, chill to the touch.
Before taking ship I set down in London and found my daughter in great Rapture with her life.
Fubbs whispered to me, ‘Margaret is much noted by the young Beaux of the Court. The youngest son of Lord Delavigne, the Honourable Julius Royston, is vaporous with longing, but I have forbidden Margaret to lose her virginity to him. She must hold out and that way she may get a proposal. Un Match très, très auspicieux, mon cher Merivel! La noble et riche famille Delavigne! And he is such a charming young man, you cannot imagine …’
Fubbsy’s delight in Margaret was, I observed, a tender and affecting thing. When Margaret was talking, Louise de Kéroüalle’s bright bird eyes fixed their gaze on her, as a Mother’s gaze fixes itself encouragingly upon an infant in its efforts to walk or speak. When they moved out of a room, Louise linked arms with Margaret and they leaned close together like conspirators.
Only one thing troubled the two women, and this was the vexed condition of the King’s health. Fubbs told me that he had suffered a Convulsion very suddenly that morning, while having his moustache trimmed, and fallen into a Faint. When I asked if I might see him she said: ‘He is sleeping. But when the Queen heard of it, she insisted that he be moved to her Apartments and I cannot take you there.’
I walked with Margaret round the gardens and noted subtle changes in her bearing. Where, before at Bidnold, she had tended to skip about and be careless, like a girl, now she moved with a slow grace, holding her head still and high, and when she took my arm I saw that she was careful to arrange her hand upon it so that her fingers were prettily spread, as though at some stately dance. And those people who passed us – mostly gatherings of fops draped about with heavy Swords – smiled at her and inclined themselves in small, unnecessary bows.